Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4081384.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Katekyou_Hitman_Reborn!
  Relationship:
      Joushima_Ken/Kakimoto_Chikusa
  Character:
      Joushima_Ken, Kakimoto_Chikusa
  Additional Tags:
      Violence, Fight_Sex, Blood, Breathplay, Choking, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot
      What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-28 Words: 3021
****** Sudden ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "There’s a brief calculation in Chikusa's head, the same one he
     always does, contemplating the various ways in which this can play
     out against the inconvenience of Ken shredding his jacket and tearing
     up his back or shoulder, taking into consideration the difficulty of
     offering any but token resistance." Ken tries to catch Chikusa in a
     surprise attack and Chikusa rapidly gains the upper hand.
Chikusa knows Ken is coming up behind him. Ken is under the impression he is a
master of surprise, that the only reason Mukuro always knows where he is in a
room is because of some semi-supernatural power the other has. Chikusa has
never bothered to inform him that his breathing, even muffled, is louder than
Chikusa’s ever gets, that when he walks on his tiptoes his footsteps are more
clear than they are otherwise, that the reason he sometimes gets the better of
Chikusa has less to do with the element of surprise and more to do with the
futility of actually resisting the inevitable pounce. He would pout if Chikusa
told him, sulk for a day or two, and in the end he’s unlikely to remember the
information for more than a week. It’s a waste of effort to try to educate him,
so Chikusa doesn’t bother telling him, often doesn’t even bother fighting back.
He can hear Ken’s approach now, the panting anticipation in his breathing and
the scuff of his sneakers against the floor. There’s a brief calculation in his
head, the same one he always does, contemplating the various ways in which this
can play out against the inconvenience of Ken shredding his jacket and tearing
up his back or shoulder, taking into consideration the difficulty of offering
any but token resistance. Usually he’d take the attack, let Ken bear him down
to the floor and do what he wants with him, but today Chikusa feels jittery,
maybe, a little more awake or a little more rested than usual, and being pinned
underneath the other boy’s weight doesn’t have the same appeal of passivity it
usually has.
Ken doesn’t notice when Chikusa speeds his pace slightly, just enough to bring
them closer to one of the columns supporting the crumbling ceiling over their
heads. Chikusa didn’t need to count on the other’s obliviousness; he knew he
could get away with it, the same way he knows Ken will be watching his slumped
shoulders and not the motion of his hands against his pockets. He’s still
careful, gentle with his actions so they wouldn’t tip off even a more observant
follower, and if he’s bracing himself for motion he does it while maintaining
his slouch, while his appearance from the back remains unchanged. By the time
Ken makes his move Chikusa has been ready for seconds, the weight of his yo-yos
pressed against his fingertips and his entire body taut as a drawn bow waiting
for the snap of release
It’s into this high-strung peace that he hears the drawn-out inhale of
expectation, the scrape of a shoe pressing against the floor, and Ken is just
starting to yell wordless threat as Chikusa turns and lets one of his yo-yos
fly. The weight rolls off his fingertips, snaps in a smooth arc through the
air, and Chikusa can hear the whine of the string unrolling as he drags his
hand back, yanks the weight through the air so it cracks solidly against Ken’s
temple as the other braces himself for a leap. The movement never comes,
stalled short by all the tension in Ken’s body going slack under the burst of
pain, and the growl of victory breaks off into a yelp of hurt instead. Chikusa
reels in the weapon, collects the hard curve back against his hand again, and
when Ken gets back to his feet to bare his teeth in instinctive fury Chikusa is
ready for him.
Ken’s movements are fast, if inefficient, a forward lunge that gets his nails
tearing against the front of Chikusa’s jacket before the other boy can consider
strategic retreat to a distance better suited to his weapons. That, at least,
Ken has learned well over their years of scuffles, that he is far better off at
close-range against Chikusa than at the greater distance better suited to the
other’s weapons. But Chikusa is a faster learner than the other, and he knows
this trick of Ken’s, and he has the advantage of paying attention to their
surroundings. When the blond moves in Chikusa swings an arm up to block the
scrape of his teeth, takes the bite against his arm rather than at his
collarbone, and when Ken falls backwards to hiss irritation he moves in the
direction Chikusa wanted. Then he’s close enough, nearly up against the column
anyway; all Chikusa has to do is step in close, straightening his shoulders to
gain a sudden height advantage, and Ken’s instincts send him falling backwards
away from the larger target to stumble against the support behind him. Chikusa
snaps his wrist, lets the cord of his yo-yo snap out, and Ken is still staring
at him dazed out of focus when the string catches around the back of the
column, swings itself in and back around so Chikusa can catch and pull it into
a threat against Ken’s throat.
He gets a hiss for his trouble, as he knew he would, a wide-swung kick aimed at
his knee that misses by dint of slamming into his calf instead. Chikusa can
feel the instant bruise blossoming under the skin, an ache so sharp it’s almost
a distraction and might be accompanied with blood, but he has the upper hand
now and nothing so minor as pain is going to get him to let it go.
“Ken,” he says, careful and level. “Stop.”
“Fuck you, Kaki-pi,” Ken spits, swipes at the front of Chikusa’s coat as he
brings his other hand up to grab at the cord pressing into his throat. Chikusa
is beginning to see a flaw in his planned attack -- he left Ken’s hands free,
as the deep scratch starting to bleed through the fabric at his shoulder
attests -- but it’s far too late to retreat now. Letting him go will only make
the situation worse, will leave Ken completely mobile and angry to boot, so
Chikusa just steadies his hold, applies enough pressure that Ken chokes and
gasps and brings both hands up to drag against his neck for a handhold.
“Stop,” Chikusa says again. Ken’s scratching against his throat, reaching for a
hold he can’t get under the thin cord, careless of the blood he’s drawing with
the edges of his rough fingernails. “You’re only hurting yourself.”
“Let me go,” Ken protests, his voice scraping against the pressure on his
throat. “Let me go, I’ll tear you to pieces.”
“You’re not very good at offering motivation,” Chikusa observes. Ken blinks
himself into focus on the other, bares his teeth in a growl. His hands drop
from the futility of scratching at his skin, come out to grab at Chikusa’s
jacket instead and leave fingerprints in blood against the fabric. Chikusa lets
himself be pulled in, stepping forward rather than giving up his advantage of
balance; from this close Ken is radiant, flaring heat like he’s running a fever
just under the skin of his mostly-human body. Chikusa can hear the catch in his
breathing, like the other is trying to take in air through a straw and finding
it less than sufficient, but he’s still managing a glare, the dark shadows of
his eyelashes catching even the bright color of his eyes into shade.
Then Ken moves. If he were free Chikusa would be expecting teeth to sink into
his shoulder, maybe closer to the thud of his pulse than is quite safe; as it
is he’s ready for fingers to tear against his bare skin, for the sharp hurt of
injury to blossom out across the unfelt brand of the mark on his cheek. But Ken
arches his back instead, curving himself off the wall at his back so his hips
bump hard against Chikusa’s leg, and Chikusa’s blood glimmers with a suggestion
of warmth like the other boy’s fever is contagious.
“Ah,” he says, the sound just neutral acknowledgment, but Ken reacts like it’s
agreement, drops his hands to Chikusa’s hips in an attempt to drag him in
bodily. When Chikusa takes a step in it’s at his own will more than Ken’s
urging, but it’s not like it makes much of a difference in the end; they end up
in the same place, with his knee fitting between Ken’s and close enough that
Ken could probably draw blood with his teeth alone, if he tried.
He doesn’t try. It’s remarkable in and of itself, the way Ken’s attention can
be so thoroughly derailed just by this level of proximity, by the mere
suggestion of physical pleasure. It’s faintly interesting, Chikusa has to
admit, to see the other boy’s outside considerations dissolve into nothing at
all the moment Chikusa angles his leg in to press against the front of the
blond’s pants. It’s not like he’s let his hold go; the string of his yo-yo is
still digging into Ken’s throat, the blood Ken drew with his own struggles is
still trickling against his neck and seeping into his shirt, but now the blond
seems to have forgotten about that except for the whine of effort still layered
over his breathing, is entirely committed to the pull of his hands at Chikusa’s
hips instead of worrying about anything else.
Chikusa sighs. “You’re so simplistic,” he comments, an observation more than an
insult, shifts his hold on the yo-yo so he can hold the string tight in one
hand. It’s not enough to keep Ken still, if he were to truly struggle, but he’s
not struggling anymore, except to rock himself in as close as he can get to
Chikusa’s hips. Chikusa can feel himself starting to go half-hard in
instinctive reaction to the other boy’s movements, faint intrigue doing what it
always manages to do and raising his blood warm enough that he’s flushed
against the inside of his clothes, can feel the fabric starting to catch on the
suggestion of warmth at the surface of his skin. Ken purrs when he notices,
shoves his hand in against Chikusa’s pants with inelegant haste, but Chikusa
doesn’t protest; the friction is starting to feel good, prickling a suggestion
of sensation up the line of his spine, and Ken always likes it better if they
do this together anyway.
“Stop wiggling,” Chikusa says, leaning in closer in an attempt to hold Ken in
place. By all rights the limited supply of oxygen should make him hazy and
compliant but he’s still moving too much, tipping his weight forward so it’s
nearly impossible for Chikusa to get a steady hold on the fastenings at the
front of his pants. Ken hesitates at the command, like he’s debating whether to
obey or not, and that’s enough for Chikusa. He pushes the button loose, drags
at the zipper, and by the time Ken decides he doesn’t care about being helpful
it doesn’t matter anyway. Chikusa has his pants open, can push them aside with
one hand, and when he gets his fingers in to curl around the other boy’s hard-
flushed length all the fight goes out of Ken all at once.
“Ha,” he gasps, all the air leaving his throat at once so it catches into a
hiss of effort as he breathes out. Chikusa can feel the warmth against his
skin, the gust of Ken letting his hard-won breath go; it fogs his glasses for a
moment, leaves him blind while he starts to shift his hand over the other boy’s
length, and Ken’s fingers curl in against the top of his pants, pull with more
force than rationality. The button gives way to the force but the zipper
doesn’t; there’s a catch, a sound of fabric tearing, and Chikusa sighs
resignation to yet another new uniform while Ken is still choking a laugh of
satisfaction. His fingers are sticky when he gets a hand in under Chikusa’s
clothes, the blood caught on his skin tacky as it dries, until when he closes
his fingers tight and drags the friction is more of a burn than satisfaction.
“Gentle, Ken,” Chikusa suggests, even though he knows Ken won’t listen. It
doesn’t make a huge amount of difference anyway; there’s some satisfaction in
the burn too, the sharp edge of the pain a little easier to discern than the
softer shape of pleasure in his veins. It gives him something to latch onto,
something to hold the shape of his attention, and while he’s finding a rhythm
for the motion of his own hand against the other boy’s length the unconsidered
drag of Ken’s grip over him is sparking color into his thoughts, warming the
cool in his blood into something that might be nearly human adrenaline. It
feels good, unfamiliar but pleasant, like the way sometimes Chikusa wakes up
warm because Ken is curled in against him, the way he’ll sometimes lie still
and unmoving for hours just to feel the sunlight-heat of someone else’s body
close against him. Only now it’s his own body, Ken’s motions are pouring heat
into him directly, and his breathing is coming faster, lungs laboring for air
as if he’s been working far harder than he has in truth. His skin is prickling
hot, weird flushes of warm rippling over him and out into his fingertips until
he has to lean against the hand still fisted around the yo-yo strings, has to
tip in to rest his weight on the column and breathe in against the tangled mess
of Ken’s gold hair. Even the tickle of the contact isn’t unpleasant under the
circumstances; the friction catches on Chikusa’s warmed-over skin, a feather-
light echo of the hand pulling up over his cock, and when he says “Ken” it’s
strangely breathless and unintentional.
Ken doesn’t answer; Chikusa’s not sure he’s listening at all. When he tips his
head to look at the other Ken’s head is tipped back at the wall, his eyes shut
and mouth open on the desperate inhales he’s trying to take past the pressure
at his throat, the pale string dyed dark by the smear of blood from the
scratches he left on his own skin. Chikusa is staring before he thinks about
it, his gaze caught and trapped by the pattern against Ken’s throat, doesn’t
look away even when Ken starts to tremble and shake under the pressure of
sensation in his veins. Chikusa watches tension build under the other’s skin,
drag his neck taut with straining for air and satisfaction alike, and when Ken
groans and shudders into slack pleasure Chikusa can see the relief in the shape
of his throat as much as the sagging line of his shoulders.
There’s a moment of hesitation, Ken’s hand going still as he spills sticky come
against Chikusa’s steady-stroking fingers; then a hiss of an inhale, Ken’s eyes
come open, and when he moves again it’s Chikusa’s turn to shut his eyes, to
retreat to the darkness so he can try to breathe through the rush of heat under
his skin. He lets Ken go, grabs against the other boy’s shoulder for support
without even thinking about the mess on his hands or the print he’ll leave on
the other’s clothes; even his grip on the yo-yo in his palm loosens, the string
falling slack at last as the tension in his body falls free of his grasp and
drops into the pure force of reflex. It’s a relief, in a way, trusting to his
body to find what it’s burning for without the guidance of his rational
thought, and Ken is growling encouragement, his mouth so close Chikusa can feel
the drag of teeth against his ear when Ken moves. He doesn’t move, doesn’t pull
away from the maybe-threat; he’s not trying to exert his will anymore, is just
letting the aching heat pool in his veins and start to sweep dragging friction
up his spine. He’s arching in, leaning heavily against Ken’s shoulder until
it’s the main reason he’s still upright; then his throat tightens, his breath
comes as a choked gasp, and he twitches against Ken’s hold, each shiver of heat
running through him bringing a pulse of liquid out against the other’s fingers
to match.
Ken wiggles free before Chikusa has entirely regained his balance, dragging
sticky fingers against his neck to pull the loosened string away so he can duck
down and dodge away. Chikusa stays where he is, leaning on the column even when
he looks down and starts trying to figure out how much damage Ken did to his
pants in getting them open. It takes him longer than it should, even given the
tremble in his hands; his thoughts feel hazy, melted out of coherency until
even simple tasks take conscious effort. Even so, Ken is waiting when he
manages to straighten and look around, sitting on the floor in a remarkable
display of patience better explained by the glaze in his eyes than by a sudden
upsurge in his maturity. There’s blood smeared over his neck and caught under
his fingernails, his throat raw and swollen in the lines of Chikusa’s yo-yo
string, and he’s made no effort to pull his clothes back into place.
“You’re a mess,” Chikusa says with no judgment in the tone. “We should bandage
those scratches or they’ll get infected.”
Ken groans, tips his head up to meet Chikusa’s gaze through the fall of his
hair. “It’s your fault anyway, Kaki-pi.”
“I’ll do it for you,” Chikusa allows, puts his yo-yo back in his pocket so he
can offer Ken a hand. “Come on, Ken.”
Ken does, of course. It doesn’t matter than they got each other off instead of
fighting, that Chikusa would have been willing to choke Ken into
unconsciousness as easily as Ken would have clawed his back into bloody cross-
hatching if Chikusa hadn’t been ready to stall his attack. They understand each
other better than anyone, better than they understand themselves, until when
Ken reaches for the other’s hand Chikusa doesn’t pull away from the friction of
the other’s fingers fitting between them, even with the dirt and blood and come
sticky on his skin.
The reassurance of companionship is worth a little dirt.
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